


Explosions and Rainbows

by Eligh



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-22
Updated: 2016-08-22
Packaged: 2018-08-10 09:04:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7838761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eligh/pseuds/Eligh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil and Clint are reunited, with only a little bit of threatening from Deadpool.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Explosions and Rainbows

When Phil opens his eyes he is greeted by a riot of rainbows, something that lies in sharp contrast to the fact that his other senses are screamingly in the red. He aches in a general bodily manner, with the added bonus of something sharp and insistent in both his left temple and abdomen. There’s a high ringing in his ears that’s only just muffling the sounds of the battle outside—outside wherever he is—and the air smells like burnt suit (his, probably) burnt hair (also likely his) and barbeque, which, given this implication, means that Phil immediately overcomes the varying aches and pains in favor of rolling to his side and throwing up.

“Ewww,” someone says, and Phil spits once more on the floor before clearing his throat and hazarding another look around.

Still with the rainbows. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath before managing a shaky, “Where’m I?” to his fellow mysterious occupant of this pastel-hued hell.

“Oh, um,” the voice says, drifting closer. Phil tenses near-imperceptibly.  “I think it was an art studio. You know, one of those places where bored housewives drink wine and copy art?” The smell of barbeque intensifies as someone in a heavily singed red-and-black suit wanders into Phil’s field of vision. “Not that I’m knocking on the housewives,” the costumed someone says quickly. “I mean, I’m sure they’re lovely people.” He glances at Phil, somehow managing to convey a leer though his full mask. “All that pent up energy, amirite?”

Phil narrows his eyes in lieu of an answer, and the guy shrugs. “You know what I’m talking about, don’t deny it.” He gives Phil a blatant once-over. “I bet you’re a monster in the sack.”

Phil blinks slowly at that and, choosing not to engage, instead pushes himself up on his elbows. He’s on the floor, surrounded by rubble; memory abruptly comes rushing back—Daisy and Mel and the rest of the team, the Inhuman, the chase, the _lasers_ —“I need to leave,” he says, and the guy, who’d been pacing by the busted-out windows at the front of the shop-that-was, freezes in his tracks.

“Well this is awkward,” he says with a touch of chagrin. “But our mutual buddy asked me to keep an eye on you _and_ keep you here ‘til he gets back and well…I keep my promises.” And then he glances away from Phil—toward a blank wall, in fact—and says, “What? I am a man of my word! Many words, in fact, lots of them swears.” He points at the wall. “No, _you_ shut up!”

All right then.

“Well,” Phil hazards, “I’m sure our, uh, mutual buddy would understand the need for me to get back into the thick of things, being the head of my organization and all, so I’ll just—”

“No,” the guy says, and then unsheathes two very sharp swords from the crisscrossed scabbards strapped to his back. Phil sighs as the guy points blade first at Phil’s chest. “Clint was upset when he saw you, and he said—and I quote—‘Keep him the fuck here Wade, I don’t care if you have to sit on him.’ I’m pretty sure he doesn’t want me to stab you, but y’know, I’m not gonna make any promises.”

Phil freezes in place, because— _Clint_.

Shit. Shitshitshit.

“Clint as in…” he says, silently hoping that the guy’s wrong, that the world doesn’t hate him today and that he’s simply been mysteriously benefitted by some random person named Clint, but—

“Hawkeye,” the guy—Wade?—says. “Hawk _guy_ , specifically, because the other Hawkeye’s much nicer and more befitting of the title.” One of the swords waves in a sloppy circle. “Though they’ve both got that purple theme going, very nice, you know? Really ties the brand together. Hotguy, Hawkerino, the World’s Greatest Marksman, Clinton of the Barton clan, the Iowa Bartons, you know.” The swords sag. “We teamed up helping out the X-Men that one time, and we even had our own Halloween special! It was very touching.” He leans in, and in a stage whisper says, “Not in the bad-touching sense, I promise, though I bet certain people on the internet would _love_ to see that.”

“I—” Phil tries to interject, but the guy’s undeterred.

“I mean, not as much as me and Spidey, if we’re talking slash, I’m sure you understand—”

“I absolutely do not,” Phil mutters. Wade appears not to have heard him.

“—but Clint and I have a real bond! We hang out! We tried to crash She-Hulk’s Christmas party and she wouldn’t let us—don’t mess with that lady, that’s for sure—and so we had diner food instead!” His eyes widen under the mask. “You don’t break the code of crappy diners, Coulson!”

Outside, something explodes. Dust drifts down on their heads in the sudden resulting silence.

“So!” Wade says happily after a moment more of armed standoff. He takes a breath and looks at his raised swords. “What was I saying?”

“You’ve been instructed to let me go?” Phil suggests. Blithering insanity is not something he’s particularly cowed by, so he may as well try. No harm in trying.

Wade laughs and sheathes his swords. “Nah. Good on you, though. Clint’ll be back in a minute.” He waggles a finger in Phil’s direction. “Just you stay put.”

~

Twenty minutes later, just as Phil’s debating getting close enough to stun Wade with the fancy new taser Fitz has built into the latest model of his hand, Clint strolls though the busted-out windows at the front of the store. He’s unharmed, if a touch singed, and greets Wade with a smile and a clap of the shoulder. “Thanks, man,” he says. “I owe you a chimichanga from Marco’s.”

“Fuck yeah,” Wade says enthusiastically—fist pump included—before glancing over his shoulder at Phil and then whispering loudly to Clint, “He didn’t look happy when I said your name.”

“No, I suspect he wouldn’t,” Clint says congenially. “Given how hard he’s tried to make it look like he’s dead.”

“Clint,” Phil says, pushing himself up from where he’d parked his ass on a stool near a broken easel. Clint looks at him, the smile dropping from his face.

“Stop,” he says, soft and icy. Phil does.

Wade looks back and forth between the two of them before he clears his throat and says, “Y’know, blowjobs.” He then spreads his hands widely: ta-da.

There’s a brief pause before Clint cocks his head and looks back at his friend. “Care to elaborate on that?” he asks. It sounds like he’s fighting down a laugh and Phil wonders, one, just how the hell this guy came into Clint’s life, and two, why on earth is Clint so used to non sequiturs like this. Life has apparently greatly changed in the last year or so.

Wade nods a couple times before blinking rapidly. “Oh! Yeah. They cure problems. Blowjobs are magic.” He smiles widely under the mask. “And if I know two guys who are in need of blowjobs, it’s you two.” He wiggles two fingers between Clint and Phil’s chests, and somehow manages to make it vulgar. It’s almost impressive.

There’s a stilted pause, and then: “No, Wade,” Clint says softly, all laughter gone from his voice. He sounds tired instead, and Phil has a heady moment of crushing guilt. Clint ruffles his hand through the hair on the back of his head, the nervous gesture so familiar it makes Phil’s breath catch. “Phil and I aren’t…” Clint stops himself, wincing, and switches tack. “Nevermind. Thanks, man. I owe you one. Listen, I’ll, uh, I’ll text you Frank’s number.”

“Sah-weet!” Wade says. “Deadpool/Punisher teamup time! Deadisher? Punipool? I like Punipool, it sounds like a joke.” He tilts his head back and sighs happily. “And then we’ll kill them all in their faces.” He turns and waves at Phil. “Okay byee! Nice meeting you, buddy!” And with that he practically bounces out of the store, whistling something under his breath.

There’s a moment of awkward silence following Wade’s departure that Phil breaks with, “Should I ask who all the ‘thems’ that he’s planning on killing are?”

“I don’t think he knows, particularly,” Clint says thoughtfully, watching out the window as Wade disappears around the corner. “But Frank’s got a list. I’m sure Wade won’t mind helping out.”

Phil swallows. Clint’s talking to him. This is good. “I was under the impression that Mr. Castle doesn’t play well with others.”

“Wade doesn’t play well with anybody,” Clint says with a shrug, turning to face him. “I’m sure they’ll get along fine. And if they don’t, well. Wade’s effectively immortal. He can take what Frank throws at him.”

“Well that’s useful,” Phil says with a hesitant smile. “He’s certainly a—”

“I don’t want to talk about Wade,” Clint interrupts. Phil goes quiet, his smile falling.  

“So,” Clint says finally, after the silence stretches long enough that they’re both clearly uncomfortable. He scratches his hairline on the back of his head. “You’re alive.”

Phil licks his lips. “There were… some extenuating circumstances.”

“I’m listening,” Clint says, his hands clenching anxiously on his bow. He clears his throat, looks down at the ground. “Phil, you gotta know… I woulda been listening for as long you wanted.”

“Clint,” Phil starts, but then finds he doesn’t have the words. He’s been… God, he’s been missing this man. “Clint, I’m so…”

Clint’s bow clatters to the ground and a half second later he’s crowding Phil up against the broken easel at his elbow, his arms tight around Phil’s waist, his nose buried under Phil’s chin. “You’re alive,” he repeats, a might shakily. “I’m really fucking mad at you, but…” he breathes out hotly against Phil’s neck. “I wanna hear everything. But you’re alive.”

Phil lets his arms settle around Clint’s back. He closes his eyes. Breathes him in. “Yeah,” he says. “And I missed you.” Clint’s breath hitches, and so Phil holds him tighter. “So much, Clint.”

Clint pulls back a little, and his eyes are suspiciously wet. He sniffs once and blinks quickly. “Why’d you never…”

“I fucked up,” Phil says honestly, drifting his real hand up to cup Clint’s face. He thumbs at a cheekbone, one that’s more pronounced than he remembers. “My memory was—compromised for a bit after New York, and then, well.” He glances away. “It got too big, and after awhile it just seemed like I’d never find the right time to just, be back. The lie was too much.”

“It’s never too much,” Clint murmurs, pressing into Phil’s hand and closing his eyes. “I mean, I really woulda liked you showing up at the farm instead of being practically blown up at my feet, but…”

“Clint,” Phil says, for lack of anything else in his head.

Clint opens his eyes. “I still love you.”

Phil sucks in a breath and pulls Clint back in. Their kiss doesn’t fix things—doesn’t fix the betrayal Phil knows he’s inflicted on the man he loves, but well, when Clint opens up under him, melts against his chest—

It’s a start.

**Author's Note:**

> So I know the tone on this one shifts wildly, sorry, but! That's what writing on pain pills does to a person. I'm in that weird state where I'm bored mightily but still can't move around a lot--I had pretty major surgery, moving forward with transition, v. exciting--and so... yes! I've watched Deadpool about ten times in the past three weeks, so that's a thing. Fanfiction save me from the monotony that is bed rest.


End file.
